by Marc Turner
A crossbow bolt hit the wall to Agenta’s right before ricocheting past.
“Run!” Warner shouted, pushing her along the corridor and away from the fighting.
She fled.
Farrell and a Gilgamarian soldier called Spark were ahead of her. Spark turned right into a side passage, and Agenta followed, quickly drawing level with Farrell, who was jogging with one hand over his gut. Spark took the next right, bringing them into a corridor that ran parallel with the one in which they had met Sticks. As they approached a junction Agenta drew her sword, expecting Imerle’s soldiers to arrive to block their path.
None appeared.
The kalisch reached the intersection and looked right to glimpse a scrum of Storm Guards and Chameleons. Sticks was in the thick of the fighting, wielding his sword two-handed against a red-haired priestess wearing fish-scale armor. Then Agenta was past the junction, sandals flapping and slapping.
The combatants disappeared from view.
Agenta glanced back to see Balen and Warner behind. There was no sign of Iqral, though, and the kalisch struggled against an urge to laugh. They were down to five. Five, to take on not just the remaining defenders in the palace, but also the emira and her elite guardians. She should not have sent so many soldiers to escort Lydanto. More to the point, she’d been a fool to think she could fight through to Imerle with a mere forty men. And yet, if she could just make it as far as the throne room …
An idea was taking form in her mind. One which offered a chance to wrest some gain from the ashes of this day. One she dared not share with her companions.
Spark, ten paces ahead, took the next left. Doubtless the man was as lost as Agenta herself, but the sound of the sea was getting louder so he must have been leading them toward the throne room. The kalisch heard fighting from along the side corridors they passed. In one of the courtyards to her right she saw two Chameleon priests battling a Storm Guard, but the passage in front remained mercifully empty.
Then the air ahead of Spark blurred, and he seemed to stumble.
His head lifted from his shoulders.
Spark’s body ran on an improbable step before collapsing to the ground. Blood pumped from his neck.
Agenta slithered to a halt. What in the Nine Hells…?
A flicker of movement, and two Chameleons—a man and a woman—materialized in the corridor.
Then someone hammered into Agenta from behind, knocking her to the floor.
* * *
Senar lashed out with his Will at Tali and connected with a blow that spun her from her feet. Then he turned just in time to confront Mili, parrying a thrust to his groin before countering with a backhand cut that she blocked. Knowing he had only heartbeats before Tali recovered from his Will-strike, he pressed his assault on her sister. Mili seemed happy to defend, never risking her needle-thin blade in a full-blooded parry but instead just touching Senar’s strokes aside. The corridor rang with steel. Over the clamor the Guardian listened for footfalls that would signal Tali’s approach from the rear.
Nothing.
He pictured Tali creeping up behind, her blade stabbing for his unprotected back …
Cursing, he feinted a cut to Mili’s hip, then struck out with his Will. The blow knocked her back a few steps, and she stumbled into a wall.
Senar spun round.
In time to see Tali’s sword lunging for his chest. He brought his blade up to parry, turning his body as he did so. Tali’s weapon flicked off his own and grazed his shirt. He retaliated with a cut that had her leaping backward. A pace behind her was the open doorway to Jambar’s quarters, and Senar, seeing a way out of his predicament, glanced toward it.
As he’d hoped, Tali edged across to block his path to the doorway.
Opening up a way past her along the corridor.
Senar caught her next thrust on his sword and twisted his wrist to pin her blade for the time he needed to move level with her. A nudge of his Will forced her back into Jambar’s room.
He stepped past her along the passage before turning to confront Mili.
Mili had recovered her footing and now approached cautiously, her sword held low. Tali reentered the corridor to flank her.
All that effort just to bring the three of them back to the positions where they’d started.
The sisters were grinning.
Senar heard running feet suddenly, and from a side passage behind the women appeared two Storm Guards. One was carrying a crossbow which he pointed at the Guardian.
Tali barked a command, and the soldier lowered his weapon.
Sporting of her.
Another of Jambar’s bones cracked underfoot as the Guardian took a pace back. He was already regretting cleaning the red solent from his blade after killing Greave, but it wasn’t as if he’d come anywhere close to piercing the sisters’ defenses yet. The women were as good as he’d been expecting, but not as good as he’d feared. He had noticed, for instance, that Mili tended to narrow her eyes before attacking. If he could anticipate her next strike and grasp her sword …
The twins came on again, and Senar retreated, waiting for an opening. When it came—a high thrust from Mili on his right—he swayed aside and reached out to seize her blade.
Mili must have been expecting the move, though, for she snatched her weapon back, and Senar’s fingers closed on air.
The twins’ smiles broadened.
When Tali next attacked, Senar used his Will to deflect her sword into the wall on his left, hoping its point would snag on a joint between the stones and shatter. Luck was against him, though, for her blade merely scored the rock. Before he could take advantage of her moment of vulnerability, Mili lunged forward. A blow from Senar’s Will rocked her back on her heels—just as Tali rejoined the fray. She feinted a low slash before spinning on her heel and aiming a punch at the Guardian’s midriff which he blocked with a forearm.
Mili renewed her onslaught, and the twins’ combined assault forced Senar to backpedal. One of Mili’s thrusts, turned aside by Senar’s sword, brought her chest to chest with the Guardian. Her head snapped forward, and Senar, anticipating a head-butt, leaned back.
It seemed Mili had been intent on delivering no more than a kiss, though, for her puckered lips passed a finger’s width from his chin.
The sisters giggled.
“What, not even…”
“… a single kiss, Guardian?”
“We promise…”
“… not to bite.”
Senar grimaced. “I fear, ladies, that your kisses may have something of a sting to them.”
Laughing, they advanced.
Senar had used the time they’d been talking to gather his Will, but before he could unleash it he heard a scream from behind the sisters. Looking past them, he saw the Storm Guard crossbowman on his knees, blood gushing from his throat. His companion—a woman—was so busy staring in disbelief at the wound that she didn’t notice a man in the shimmering robes of a Chameleon priest materialize to her right. He rammed his sword into her side.
Senar allowed himself a smile. An unexpected source of help, that, but he would take whatever allies were going.
A ripple of air, and a second priest appeared a few paces behind the twins. Tali had already turned toward the danger. The Chameleon swung his blade in a decapitating cut, but she caught the strike on her sword and countered with a kick to the man’s chest that sent him sprawling.
Mili’s gaze had remained fixed on Senar, but now she looked at something over his shoulder.
Her eyes widened.
The Guardian spun round, then realized he might have just fallen for the old look-out-he’s-behind-you trick. If he got Mili’s sword in his back after that, it would serve him right.
Instead he saw a different blade stabbing for his face—this one held by a third Chameleon priest.
Allies. Right.
* * *
“It’s over, Emira,” Caval said. “As we speak my followers are taking control of the palace. The f
ew Storm Guards stationed here are no match for them, and your troops in the city are too far away to help.”
“You wish us to surrender?” Imerle said, examining her nails. Behind her the executioner remained staring into space.
“Ah, I don’t see that you have any choice.”
“And you expect us to believe you will let us live if we do?”
“I give you my word. You will be my guest until the dust settles on this day’s events, but once the transition of power is complete, you will be free to go wherever you wish. So long as it is outside the Sabian League, of course.”
Imerle looked at Karmel. “What say you, priestess? Should we take the deal he offers? Can we trust his word?”
Karmel stared back at her, uncertain what the woman wanted her to say. Caval was never going to let her walk out of here alive, but from the emira’s expression she knew that as well as Karmel.
“What did your brother tell you?” Imerle said suddenly. “That he knew nothing of what would happen at the Dragon Gate?”
“Enough,” Caval said.
“Or perhaps,” the emira went on, “that he didn’t have time to give you all the details before you left?”
Karmel swallowed. A part of her wanted to ignore Imerle’s questions and leave Caval to administer the woman’s last rites. But Karmel had come to the palace for answers, and she wasn’t about to shy away from them now. “He said you told him about the mission only the day before Dragon Day.”
The corners of the emira’s mouth turned up. “Yes, that makes sense. Do you have any idea how much planning went into today’s proceedings? Into learning about the Dianese control room and sounding out the Storm Guard commanders for support? Into raising funds to hire the Revenants and bring their ships to our island undetected? Months it has taken, yet all would have been for naught if we couldn’t have found a way to dispose of the other Storm Lords and those closest to them. For that we required the Chameleons’ aid to release the dragons. The success of our venture hung on what happened in Dian, so obviously we would wait until the last moment to speak to Caval.”
“Save your breath,” Caval said. “You won’t make her doubt—”
“Doubt?” Imerle cut in. “Oh, we think you will find she has doubts already.” Then, to Karmel, “We assume from the bruises round your neck that Veran turned on you after the mission was over. Did Caval claim the man’s attack was our idea? That Veran served us, and not your brother?”
Karmel nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“And you believed him?” The emira shook her head. “Must we spell it out for you? There were to be no loose ends after Dian—we made this clear to Caval when we first approached him. Once Veran killed you, he was to turn the knife on himself, and why do you think he was prepared to do that?”
“His wife,” the priestess whispered.
“Very good. Your god agreed to heal her if Veran accepted this mission, and how could that arrangement have been brokered without your brother’s involvement? You think we hold any sway with the Chameleon?”
It felt to Karmel as if the throne room were spinning. She couldn’t think. She wanted to close her eyes, but the emira’s gaze held her.
Caval spoke. “If I’d wanted my sister dead, I could have arranged it at any time. Hells, I could have done it myself when she returned to the temple.”
“In front of witnesses?” Imerle said. “Do you take the girl for a fool?”
“No, it is you who take her for a fool if you expect her to see this for anything other than what it is: a feeble attempt to sow dissension among our ranks so you can save your sorry hide.”
The emira laughed. “You think your betrayal comes as a surprise to us? Jambar warned us of your plans, but we disregarded him because we wanted you to attack. Why else would we have emptied the palace of soldiers before inviting you here?”
“Perhaps because you overextended yourself.”
“Or perhaps because we wanted to leave you with a target too tempting to pass up. You don’t believe us? Think, High Priest. The Sabian League will take years to recover from the wounds we have inflicted on it, but recover it will, and when it does so it will come seeking retribution. Who do you think its prime suspect will be for what happened in Dian? Why, ourselves, of course.” Her eyes smoldered. “It was always our intention to blame the Dragon Gate on a Chameleon play for power. How much easier do you imagine it will be to convince the doubters now that you are here?”
Karmel stared at her, uncomprehending. So the Chameleons had walked into a trap? Were her fellow priests and priestesses even now being rounded up and slaughtered? But then why had Imerle let Caval reach the throne room unmolested? And why had she let her guards in the passage outside be killed?
Caval must have been wondering the same for he said, “Ah, a stroke of genius, Emira, though you seem to have overlooked one point. What good will it do you if your troops hold the palace when you yourself are a captive?”
“But our troops do not hold the palace. If we had warned them what you were planning, you might have seen it in their eyes.”
“You’re saying you allowed my attack to succeed? You expect me to believe—”
“You still don’t understand, do you? Look around you, High Priest. What do you see?”
Caval glanced about the chamber, his expression showing a mixture of wariness and puzzlement. Karmel’s mind was numb, her thoughts slow to rise as if they were mired in blood honey. There was something here she wasn’t seeing, something important, but what? Other than Imerle, Pernay, and the executioner, the chamber was empty of any threat to the Chameleons. Could Storm Guards be massing at the end of the underwater passage, ready to pour into the chamber at the emira’s signal? No, Wick would have warned Caval if that were so. But then what was the source of Imerle’s confidence? Did she think Caval would stay his hand now that he knew his attack had been foreseen? Why should he, for there would be no witnesses to what took place here, unless the emira counted the fish in the sea …
Karmel blinked.
The sea!
She opened her mouth to voice a warning, but Imerle was already gesturing.
And the walls of water came crashing in.
CHAPTER 20
SENAR’S NEW assailant was a Chameleon priest with a hooked nose and green eyes—eyes that widened when his stabbing sword struck an invisible Will-barrier thrown up by the Guardian. The priest had a friend—a shaven-headed woman with a ring through her nose—and she lunged with a longknife for Senar’s chest. He brought his blade up to parry but could only half deflect the stroke, and the priestess’s weapon stung his left shoulder. Senar hissed through gritted teeth before countering with a thrust that was blocked by the woman’s friend.
The priestess feinted low with her longknife even as her male companion thrust high with his sword. Senar parried the priest’s blow but did not retaliate, content to defend while he assessed his opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. Neither was a match to Mili or Tali. The man in particular, fighting with a longsword, was struggling to adapt his style to battling in the confines of the corridor, and he was constantly having to check his strokes to avoid hitting his companion. If Senar kept him swinging, the priest would eventually do the Guardian’s work for him—assuming the twins didn’t stab Senar in the back first, that is. From the sounds of fighting behind, though, it seemed the sisters were being kept well enough occupied by their own Chameleon assailants—
A concussion suddenly shook the passage, and for a heartbeat Senar was back in the titan fortress, the floor pitching beneath him as Fume thrashed against his manacles. But the god was dead, wasn’t he? A knife in the heart would have that effect. This couldn’t be another quake.
The Chameleon priestess was the first to recover, shifting her grip on her longknife and leaping to the attack. Senar blocked a cut to his head, but before he could counter, another tremor rattled the corridor, followed by a boom of water. It must have been the Guardian’s imagination, but
it sounded like it came from the next passage. The air quivered, and the floor lurched again as the thunder of water grew to a roar.
The priestess broke off her attack, gaping at something over Senar’s shoulder.
What, behind him again, was it?
Glancing back, Senar saw a chest-high frothing tide engulf the twins and the two Chameleons fighting them.
There was no time to fashion a Will-barrier, and he was swept away by the wave.
* * *
As Agenta lay on the floor she found herself staring at Spark’s severed head. She should move, she knew—the Chameleons would be coming for her—but her limbs felt impossibly heavy. She lay with her cheek pressed to the mosaic. Through the tiles she heard a rumble. Then she felt a vibration that grew in intensity until it shook the corridor and made Spark’s head bounce and twist.
An earthquake? she wondered, remembering the tremors during her flight from the Deeps. No, she decided, for the rumble had resolved itself into the unmistakable crash of water.
The two Chameleons spun round to look back along the passage.
“Sender’s mercy!” Warner said from behind Agenta.
A roaring, white-flecked wall of water came surging toward her.
* * *
“Any ideas?” Kempis asked Sniffer as the Chameleon priests advanced.
“Run?”
“Genius!” he said. “Thank the Sender I brought you along.”
Before he’d even finished speaking, though, there were footfalls in the corridor behind. He looked round to see two more Chameleons—the man and woman he’d glimpsed earlier—enter the passage. Both were carrying injuries, the woman a slice to her scalp, the man a cut to his thigh.
They moved to block off the Watchmen’s retreat.
Just then Kempis heard a thunderclap from along the corridor to his right. A deep-throated rumble set the walls shivering, followed by a concussion the septia felt through his boots. A wall of water three-quarters the height of the corridor came rushing up behind the two Chameleons. The woman turned toward it first. She gave a despairing cry as she and her male companion were engulfed and swept toward Kempis.